Hey guys,
This is now becoming a repository for poetry... I have come to dislike the ramapant exhibitionism and passive aggressive behavior that tends to come with blogging, so I'd rather use this medium as a vehicle for my art.
So here' s a new poem. All your thoughts are welcome. I hope you like it, but the more you hate it, the better - tell me what doesn't work, and I'll fix it. :)
For You
The year was quartered like convicted heroes’ bodies.
You sliced time apart, dividing the death gasps
of summer from its maiden heart, exhaling the
last breaths between autumn’s coy lips.
I hate the fall, but October took hold
of me and I begged for blizzards
so we could nuzzle close under quilts
on days buried beneath icy down blankets.
In the loam of your eyes, I planted delicate hopes.
I live in hope and fear of your eyes. You could
hide my world between pupil and iris –
You were my truest professor – teaching me
the lines written in the layers of my soul.
In our imaginary world, you whispered like
the Morningstar so I should have known
our Paradise would soon be Lost. But if my apple
urgings were the death of Eden, then
I will pay a sevenfold penance
that would moisten Cain’s murderous eyes.
I think I am still falling.
I wish I could be weightless like you.
Your touch melts gravity, so you soar
like the sky above the sea. I am still haunted
by the worms of the earth, paralyzed
by death fugues and requiems.
My life runs fast like mayfly wristwatches.
But you are a sundial, charting a steady conduit.
I am young death – you are spring’s essence.
You created my new visage. Your Minerva kiss
awakened pale emerald buds lingering beneath
a veil of frost. The earth shakes itself and rises
to match your ethereal movements.
I am still waking up, blades
of grass creeping after April’s temptations –
existence in peril, every sunset threatening
a night that blanches the face of every living thing.
I live in hope and fear of your eyes. One lash lowered
in scorn could sunder heartwood like hurricane gales.
Yet every movement belies the divine lightness –
like the turning of celestial spheres, elegant and unstoppable,
till Phoebus’ chariot consumes us all in scarlet fury.
Your eyes could smile like crescent moon slivers, waxing, warming
like the sun’s zenith kissing my skin. I basked in your rays
until you bit me, leaving bruises on tender skin and red streaks
down my back. Could we please do that again?
Could we find the razor blade moments that barely
exist in three dimensions, those diamond hours
that forget time entirely? Then the seasons
would never change, and the year
might never die at the hands of its captors.
Hours in bed could be our surgeon
scalpels that we use to divide
time ourselves, defying physics with a flipped
digit and a pecan smile.
If this dream is impossible, then let time divide
me into “everything before” and “endless moments after.”
I will understand the meaning of eternity existing
in a single second of a knowing look – “Didn’t you know
better than to believe?” But if the world turns
not coldly, but with a fiery core, if man
was not meant to fly, but wrestled god for wings,
if the rite of spring can be rediscovered and time caressed
to pleasant sleep, then let us find
the softest touch of pupils that still have
eternal lessons to teach.
I live in hope and fear of your eyes.
This is now becoming a repository for poetry... I have come to dislike the ramapant exhibitionism and passive aggressive behavior that tends to come with blogging, so I'd rather use this medium as a vehicle for my art.
So here' s a new poem. All your thoughts are welcome. I hope you like it, but the more you hate it, the better - tell me what doesn't work, and I'll fix it. :)
For You
The year was quartered like convicted heroes’ bodies.
You sliced time apart, dividing the death gasps
of summer from its maiden heart, exhaling the
last breaths between autumn’s coy lips.
I hate the fall, but October took hold
of me and I begged for blizzards
so we could nuzzle close under quilts
on days buried beneath icy down blankets.
In the loam of your eyes, I planted delicate hopes.
I live in hope and fear of your eyes. You could
hide my world between pupil and iris –
You were my truest professor – teaching me
the lines written in the layers of my soul.
In our imaginary world, you whispered like
the Morningstar so I should have known
our Paradise would soon be Lost. But if my apple
urgings were the death of Eden, then
I will pay a sevenfold penance
that would moisten Cain’s murderous eyes.
I think I am still falling.
I wish I could be weightless like you.
Your touch melts gravity, so you soar
like the sky above the sea. I am still haunted
by the worms of the earth, paralyzed
by death fugues and requiems.
My life runs fast like mayfly wristwatches.
But you are a sundial, charting a steady conduit.
I am young death – you are spring’s essence.
You created my new visage. Your Minerva kiss
awakened pale emerald buds lingering beneath
a veil of frost. The earth shakes itself and rises
to match your ethereal movements.
I am still waking up, blades
of grass creeping after April’s temptations –
existence in peril, every sunset threatening
a night that blanches the face of every living thing.
I live in hope and fear of your eyes. One lash lowered
in scorn could sunder heartwood like hurricane gales.
Yet every movement belies the divine lightness –
like the turning of celestial spheres, elegant and unstoppable,
till Phoebus’ chariot consumes us all in scarlet fury.
Your eyes could smile like crescent moon slivers, waxing, warming
like the sun’s zenith kissing my skin. I basked in your rays
until you bit me, leaving bruises on tender skin and red streaks
down my back. Could we please do that again?
Could we find the razor blade moments that barely
exist in three dimensions, those diamond hours
that forget time entirely? Then the seasons
would never change, and the year
might never die at the hands of its captors.
Hours in bed could be our surgeon
scalpels that we use to divide
time ourselves, defying physics with a flipped
digit and a pecan smile.
If this dream is impossible, then let time divide
me into “everything before” and “endless moments after.”
I will understand the meaning of eternity existing
in a single second of a knowing look – “Didn’t you know
better than to believe?” But if the world turns
not coldly, but with a fiery core, if man
was not meant to fly, but wrestled god for wings,
if the rite of spring can be rediscovered and time caressed
to pleasant sleep, then let us find
the softest touch of pupils that still have
eternal lessons to teach.
I live in hope and fear of your eyes.
